


Neglect

by vanishingact



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Castiel in the Bunker, Comfort, Fanart, First Kiss, First Time, Grooming, Hand Jobs, Illustrated, M/M, Oil Gland Kink, One Shot, Scent Marking, Top Dean, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Winged Castiel, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishingact/pseuds/vanishingact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever the good soldier, Dean Winchester figures he can get by just fine ignoring his nature, ignoring his feelings, and ignoring his own comfort. And Cas thinks he can do the same-- that is until his wings get so badly neglected he finally enlists Dean's help in tending to them. The floodgates open as both of them forget their old inhibitions. Fluff with a dose of gravity. Now includes artwork!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neglect

**Author's Note:**

> Jan 3, 2015 Update: I've added related artwork at the end. It's also by me, and it's moderately NSFW. Let me know if you like it. :)

            Dean pulled the Impala into the bunker’s expansive garage, letting it rumble to a halt and turning the key. Beat as he was, he took a few minutes to gather the Gas n’ Sip receipts from the passenger seat, shake out the floor mats, and sift the dead leaves from the grille. Then he saw the flecks of mud fanned out behind the wheel wells.

            “Aw, Baby, I don’t even remember a muddy road. You’re killing me here,” he sighed, dragging over a bucket and wash mitt.

            He wiped down the car’s flanks, talking as he worked. “You know I don’t have the heart to ride you hard and put you away wet. But this has got to just be a lick and a promise. Tomorrow we’ll do a full detail.”

            “Do you find it therapeutic? Caring for it as though it’s alive?”

            Dean tensed and jerked out of his pensive crouch in the split second before recognizing Castiel’s voice.

            “Oh, hey, man. When did you get here?” he asked, relaxing and nodding at Cas, his dark head just poking out at floor level from the stairwell. At loose ends with Heaven these days, he visited frequently.

            “This afternoon. Sam said he thought you’d be back tonight. We pulled some research for that possible nocnitsa case in the meantime,” Cas answered, ascending the stairs and coming to stare soberly at the Impala. “So, do you?”

            “Do I what?” Dean shrugged, emptying the bucket into a stationary tub. He glanced over his shoulder at Dorothy’s cherry red Indian Scout. He had a soft spot for the fierce little bike. He dampened a towel and decided to give the old gal a once over.

            “Find it… reassuring… to maintain your car? Groom it and speak to it like an animal?”

            Dean pulled a face—half-smile, half-sneer. “It’s not like that—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “I can see why it would feel good to keep it in order,” Castiel went on, unperturbed. “Your meals may get interrupted. You may not be able to shower or sleep for a couple of days at a time. You may need to unceremoniously abandon other possessions. But this car will always be a fixture—a touchstone—if you take care of it. You need to put it all right before you rest. It eases your mind better than any meditation.”

            “Cas. It is—” Dean checked his watch. “—11:15. I drove fourteen hours today. For squat, I might add. I haven’t had any coffee, and I’m brewing a big-ass headache right behind my left eyeball. Yeah, I wanna get her in good shape before I go to bed. I _don’t_ wanna get all philosophical about it.”

            “I understand,” Cas nodded. But he continued to stand there, head cocked toward the car in the harsh light of the chilly garage.

            Dean blinked skeptically and went on with his work.

            “Do you want me to heal your head?” Cas asked some moments later.

            “Shit, Cas, it’s a caffeine headache, not a wound. I’m fine.” But as he crossed the motor bay to throw the rag over the side of the sink, Cas’ arm floated out toward him and tapped away the throbbing pain with two fingers.

            Dean huffed, but had the sense to grunt a quiet “Thanks anyway.”

            “You’re welcome. I imagine it also fulfills a certain innate tactile craving,” Castiel mused on, as though there had been no interruption.

            “Dude, _what_?”

            “Cleaning the Impala. Like petting a dog or brushing a horse. I’ve observed that humans find such activities soothing. Caressing things. Making another being happy and comfortable. It doesn’t matter that the car’s not alive. You feel like you’re doing good.”

            Dean gaped. “You are reading way too goddamn much into a man washing his car, Cas. My dad was a mechanic before he was a hunter. He made sure I understood how important it is to keep up your ride. Got nothing to do with a… a ‘tactile craving.’”

            “I’m only trying to relate, Dean.” Castiel replied, unblinking.

            “Yeah, I get that.”

            “Angelkind has its own illogical needs and quirks as well. Not so different, really.”

             “What does that mean exactly?” Dean asked, finishing up and heading for the door. He rubbed his chapped hands together. The October night had turned dank and colder than forecasted, soaking straight into his bones. His shin ached just below the knee—that compound fracture from a couple years ago (and all its attendant titanium screws). He wondered absently if the dull prickle that flared up with the weather heralded arthritis. God, that was a depressing thought.

            “It’s not important,” Cas muttered, following him.

            “Sammy!” Dean called into the cavernous, Art Deco warmth of the bunker. Its lacquered glow hit him like a shot of top-shelf whiskey to the gut.

            “He went to his room awhile ago,” Cas said.

            “Oh, that’s fine. As long as he left me some of that pizza from yesterday.” He made his way to the industrial kitchen, extracting a greasy cardboard box from the old GE tank of a refrigerator. Of course Sam hadn’t eaten it all. He’d probably had nothing but green smoothies and friggin tofu in his brother’s absence. Stomach rumbling, Dean ate a slice stone-cold. He opened a bottle of beer and tipped down a third of it. “That’s what I’m talking about. Hey, you want one?” he asked Castiel, gesturing to the case of beer.

            “Why would I?” the angel asked stiffly. He’d been standing in the doorway like a lost little kid in his pajamas, pouting around for a cup of water or a bedtime story but reluctant to say so.

            “I don’t know,” Dean admitted wearily. “It’s just… what you do. You offer a guy a beer. Look, if you’re going to be staying here more often, it’d be nice if you could… I don’t know, unwind a little? Take your shoes off?”

            “What’s the matter with my shoes?”

            “Nothing, man, it’s an expression. Make yourself at home. Stop following me from room to room and… staring into my soul while I’m trying to eat.” 

            “Oh.” Castiel appraised the floor for several moments. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ve been annoying. I’ll leave you alone now.” He turned to leave.

            “No, no,” Dean choked around a mouthful of beer, waving a hand in protest. “I mean—you are kind of driving me nuts, but that wasn’t my point. I meant for your own sake. Find something to do.”

            Castiel sighed. “I would. But it’s hard to concentrate lately. I haven’t… I haven’t been feeling my best.”

            “What?” Dean asked, eyes narrowed. “You got your grace back, right? So what’s the problem? Last time I checked, angels didn’t get fucking indigestion.”

            “It’s not your concern, Dean. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

            “Like hell it’s not. You’re part of the team here.” Dean finished his beer and tossed the bottle in the bin. “Look, I’m going to brush the sweaters off my teeth and crash here in a minute, but you are going to tell me what’s eating you. Come on.”

 

            In his little windowless room, Dean spat into the cracked white sink and rinsed with several freezing cold gulps of water. Cas sulked by the dresser.

            “Well?”

            “It’s a thoroughly angelic problem. And it’s hardly… life-threatening,” Cas mumbled.

            “I told you I had a headache earlier and you had to break out the laying-on-of-hands. I sucked it up and let you help me. Now the tables are turned and you’re being a total bitch.”

            “It’s my… wings. They’re kind of a mess,” Cas spat with a flare of apparent disgust and embarrassment, as though admitting to a virulent disease. He scratched a shoulder under his trenchcoat.

            “Your _wings_?” Dean stared at the space around the angel, remembering the few occasions he’d witnessed the enormous spectral shadows. He never thought of them as corporeal appendages that could get _messy_. “Dude, I didn’t even figure you could feel them when you’re in your vessel. Were they… injured or something?”

            “I can feel them all the time, Dean. They’re folded away on another plane of perception, but they’re always there. You hear them rustle when I fly, don’t you?”

            “Well, yeah,” Dean admitted, feeling stupid. He sat on the edge of the bed, realizing he might be in this conversation for the long haul. “But I always just kind of thought of it as a… magical special effect.”  

            “They haven’t been injured. They’re perfectly functional. Just neglected.” Cas scratched that phantom itch again.

            “Neglected as in…? Dude, you molting like a parakeet or what? Spell it out for me.”

            Castiel flushed a violent, blotchy red. “I am an Angel of the Lord, Dean. In my trueform, I have the wingspan of a small island. The gales generated from them could flatten houses—”

            “Woah, woah, I get the picture. They’re some kick-ass wings. My bad.” Dean wiggled his hands in the air in mock surrender.

            Cas fumed for a moment longer, chewing on his bottom lip. “In Heaven, we lived in close quarters. In the garrisons. In the gardens. No one bothered with these difficult little vessels in the old days. We stretched our wings all the time. We basked in the sun. We cared for each other’s feathers as we talked.”

            Dean furrowed his brow. “You’re telling me that since you’ve come to Earth, you don’t have anybody to… preen your feathers.”

            “That is correct.”

            Dean stared at the polished concrete floor, eyes blurry. The warm embrace of the memory foam bed called his name like a siren. Knots of tension lay coiled in his neck and back. He thought he wanted to be alone, and preferably unconscious. But maybe not as much as he imagined. Because he didn’t hear himself telling Cas to go away. He tried to comprehend the angel’s distress—foreign to him, but then not-so-foreign—and found that he didn’t like the idea of going to bed while Cas roamed uncomfortably around the bunker alone.

            “Is this what all that brooding earlier was about? The Impala and ‘tactile cravings’ and all that?” he realized with a start.

            “Maybe,” Cas hedged.

            “Wow, talk about projecting.” Dean yanked off his work boots and sighed. “So. Should I brush your wings while we gossip?”

            “Oh!” The dresser rattled against the wall. Cas jumped away, smoothing his trenchcoat. “No, no, I couldn’t ask that of a human.”

            “You’ve been moping around me all night. You want me to fix your wings. Just tell me what to do and I’ll try.” The idea of it was, admittedly, a little weird. But if Dean was honest with himself, his curiosity had been piqued.

            “It’s very personal, Dean. Angels only groom the wings of those they’re closest to.”

            “Aren’t we close though?” Dean offered, not unreasonably.

            Castiel’s confused, gentle face lit up in a way he hadn’t expected. You would have thought Dean had just told him the best news in the world.

            “Is that surprising to you, man? We’ve been through some shit, you and me.”

            “I know. I know,” Cas agreed, still ruffled.

            “So how does this work? You gonna show me these things or not? Nobody likes a wingtease, Cas.”

            “All right. I suppose if you really don’t mind….” He came forward, shrugging off his overcoat and folding it neatly over the arm of the room’s single chair. He pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, laying them out as well. “What you’ve seen before were merely echoes. I will have to manifest them physically for you to touch them. Do not be alarmed.”

            A great whirl of air buffeted Dean’s face and he blinked back tears. The room had gone quite dark, the soft yellow glow of the lamp blocked by a shivering curtain of black feathers.

            "Holy crap, Cas,” Dean breathed, eyes round, pupils flaring to take in the details.

            The angel’s wings seemed to fill the small space, all sharp, choppy pinions over lean muscle. The primary flight feathers flared and quivered, several feet long. A couple of angular gaps in the spread made Dean think a few might be missing. Closer in, the short, thick feathers over the flesh-and-bone structure of the wings looked crushed and snarled. The grimy black of dried blood or coal dust, they reflected no light. Greasy puffs of down stuck out here and there. They even smelled musty. Dean knew at once how wrong it was.

            “I see what you mean now,” he lamented, picking away a stray bit of fluff. “You look like deep-fried shit.”

            “It is deeply unpleasant,” Cas muttered, face obscured. “And shameful. Another angel could hardly look on me now without great scorn.”

            “But it’s not your fault,” Dean protested. “I don’t guess you really _can_ clean them yourself.”

            “That’s just it. They reveal me as an outcast without a friend to my name. They’ve gotten so choked with old down that the oil glands are obstructed now. You can’t fully comprehend how disgusting it is, Dean.”

            “Well, I guess that’s all for the best since I’m the one who’s going to have to get my hands dirty. Doesn’t bother me at all.” He rolled up his thick flannel sleeves and cracked his knuckles. “I’m afraid I forgot my angel grooming how-to guide. Give me the run-down so I don’t send you away with the equivalent of a bad haircut.”

            Cas didn’t laugh. He never laughed when he ought to. “Pluck all the loose down and bar feathers first. You’ll have to really dig into the coverts and scapulars to comb it all out. You won’t hurt me. The dead ones will come free and the healthy ones should stay put. Then we might need to soak the base of them in warm water to free up the oil glands for polishing.”

            “Huh. Okay, well, sit on the edge of the bed and hunch over so I can reach everything good. I guess this might take awhile,” Dean said.

            “Yes. I’m sorry,” Cas acknowledged, sinking onto the mattress and rolling his shoulders forward in a strangely defensive curl.

            “Don’t be.”

            Dean, resting cross-legged behind Cas, picked away every visible tuft he saw protruding. Then he began to work his fingers underneath, methodically sifting out warm handfuls of dark fluff. They sat in silence, the unprecedented intimacy of the act slowly insinuating itself into Dean’s idle mind. It was akin to giving someone a shirtless massage in the middle of the night. If that someone had been a woman and human, Dean would have had a hard time perceiving it platonically. As it was, he didn’t know what to think. A mild, sleepy satisfaction had come over him while he worked and he found that he actually enjoyed the sensation of his fingertips winnowing through the giant wings. He plunged deep into the dense coverts, scratching gently.

            Cas, hushed as the grave until now, hummed contentedly.

            “Is that… right?” Dean had almost said “good” but stumbled away from it at the last second. It sounded too much like something you say during sex. Nevertheless, he scratched a little harder.

            “Yes, thank you,” Cas crooned quietly, his pale shoulders unwinding. He rubbed his hands over his haggard face. “That’s perfect, Dean. You should have been an angel.”

            He barked a low laugh at this. “Right! Me, an angel.” He shook his head, smirking. The bedspread was adrift in black feathers now. They swam lazily through the air, settling on the floor, on Dean, on everything.

            “I wonder what color your wings would have been,” Cas said to himself, sounding rather as if he’d slipped into a dazed trance.

            “Oh, they’d probably be crap.”

            “No, no, I think they’d be nice. Maybe a… a soft buckskin… with dappling like your freckles….”

            Dean felt his ears pulse with sudden heat. “That’s silly, Cas.” He fumbled around for a way to deflect the comment, pushing the image out of his head. “So, uh, everybody’s wings are different?”

            “Oh, sure. Gabriel’s were bright gold, pure sunlight beaten into armor. Michael’s were red so intense they looked almost purple… like an emperor’s cloak streaming wine and blood. True warrior’s wings. Raphael’s were a cold, heavy silver. Like gunmetal, but very elegant. Lucifer’s were white, of course.”

            “You’re getting awfully poetic there, pal. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were tipsy,” Dean chuckled.

            “I’m sorry, being groomed does send one into… kind of a stupor. Especially since it’s been so long. It’s quite hypnotizing. And nostalgic.” Cas’ head lolled, and he rubbed his eyes. “We only… we only do this in times of safety and leisure. To let down our guard like this—”

            “Well, I think it’s polishing time,” Dean interrupted, pushing heaps of down off the blanket as he stood. He washed his hands and then ran the hot tap until it steamed, trying not to glance at Cas’ slack, half-naked form reflected in the mirror. He soaked a towel and hopped back on the bed to press it against the taut, powerful base of his wings.

            “That feels great,” the angel murmured as Dean kneaded the hot terrycloth around, wiping away the film of encrusted dust. He exchanged the towel twice, until he was satisfied they were coming away clean.

            “Now what’s this about oil?” Dean asked a little nervously.

            “Oh, it’ll come on its own now, you’ll see. My feathers are parched.”

            “Okay,” Dean said, sucking meditatively on his lower lip. The room felt warm and close. He reached out and petted the dusky curve of wing in front of him, gratified by the plush velvety surface and what a good job he’d clearly done. He ran a hand over the left scapular, only snatching it away when he realized he’d stroked down and inadvertently drawn a thumb across the skin of Cas’ spine.

            “Don’t stop,” Cas whispered.

            Dean sucked air through his teeth, sitting up straighter. The spell of contentment that seemed to have nestled over them had perhaps gone too far. He couldn’t deny anymore that this was getting pretty suggestive. _Pretty gay_ , he made himself admit. He looked askance, away from the refined planes of Castiel’s back, the tousled silhouette of his bowed head.

            When Dean thought abstractly about sex, he thought about women, and that was no lie. He liked women immensely, had loved a couple. It was so easy to find the charms in a nervy waitress’ mile-long legs, in a funny bartender’s glossed lips, and fall into bed with her. He loved the give-and-take of flirting, the give-and-take of fucking. He loved that women, mostly ignorant of what he really was, wanted him. But he wasn’t strictly repelled by men. Every once in awhile he felt a certain chemistry flare up, an eager interest in the way another man walked, or spoke, or fought. He knew damn well he watched _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ because he harbored a crush on the studly chief of medicine, not his willowy assistants. And sometimes he hit a clumsy but charming rapport with another man that felt like nothing so much as coming on to each other. On several memorable occasions, it had definitely veered in that direction before Dean had slammed on the brakes, bumbling through his apologies. That was the thing: men made him bashful in a way women almost never did.

            He’d made out with a guy once, shortly after dropping out of high school. It had felt all kinds of good, stomach fluttering and dick stirring as they pawed at each other in a chilly park. The other guy had been helpless with desire, clearly totally enchanted with Dean’s good looks and tough persona, but Dean had lost his cool, choked out a spiel of weak excuses, and run back to Dad’s gruff company like his ass was on fire. He remembered his lungs rasping with effort as he pounded down block after abandoned block toward the motel, hoping the fatigue and stinging March wind might burn the arousal right out of him.

            Dad wouldn’t have liked it. In John Winchester’s mind, homosexuality was just fine… just fine for other people. Artists and actors and baristas. Obviously not his friends, not his sons. Dean had grown up among hunters, by and large rural and small-town folk who prided themselves on their willful political incorrectness. “Gay” was a punchline and an insult. Order the wrong drink? _Such a princess, will your boyfriend be picking you up soon?_ Fuck up a pool shot? _Getting a little limp-wristed there, aren’t you?_ Dean had picked up the habit despite himself, turning it on others, on Sam. He would never fit in with normal society so he had to fit in with these people, right? He told himself it didn’t hurt anything, didn’t mean anything. Just good-natured ribbing. But sometimes the words stuck in his throat, bitter. One more thing to feel guilty about.

            He didn’t suppose he could just sprint away from Cas right now like a bewildered 18-year-old. Best to finish his task and pretend nothing had gone wrong. Then bury the memory of this tentative attraction in the back of his mind under several raunchy piles of _Busty Asian Beauties_. He didn’t have the nerve to be attracted to Cas. Some guy on TV was one thing. Some guy who had been crashing in and out of his life for years was another.

            Dean cleared his throat. “Uh. Sorry.” He busied himself at the tips of Cas’ wings, sprucing up feathers that didn’t need it.

            As he did so, he became aware of a tendril of scent that had insinuated itself into the space between them. A striking, husky fragrance. It smelled darkly ambrosial, like honey and crackling stormclouds. An ethereal glow pierced by threads of metallic ozone. An old, old scent. Older than the resinous incenses of the Bible. Older than the salty musk of the first men.

            Dean inhaled, caught off-guard and all but captivated by it. He saw, looking down, that the promised oil had begun to bead on the surface of Cas’ wings, near the center. He swiped away a drop, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. The celestial scent blossomed under the friction and a twilit black-and-gold fog filled Dean’s head, so lofty and haunting it was hard to think clearly. “Oh my God,” he said before he could stop himself.

            “What?” Cas asked, looking over his shoulder for the first time. He seemed to have woken up and come to his senses now that the plucking and massaging had come to an end.

            “Uh, nothing,” Dean stuttered. “Just… nothing.”

            “You seem upset.”

            “No, we’re cool,” he lied. Face set into hard lines, Dean cautiously began smoothing the oils outward as they welled up from underneath. Silken at first and then strangely powdery on the dry-down, the thirsty feathers drank it right up, gleaming. It felt wonderful on his chapped, calloused hands. His skin tingled with an unnatural heat. The fragrance grew and morphed as the minutes passed, driving Dean downright crazy. Soaked in it past his wrists, he wanted nothing so much as to bring his palms to his face and breathe until he’d parsed out every note, every layer of the scent.

            “You can smell it, can’t you?” the angel asked.

            “Oh? The, uh, oil?” Dean huffed, jaw clenching.

            “Yes. I’m sorry if it’s offensive. Angels find it enjoyable, but I don’t know how it reads to a human nose.”

            “It’s not offensive. It’s… like perfume.” Understatement. But Dean neither had the words nor the inclination to describe it aloud.

            Cas nodded. He smiled an awkward, private smile that Dean nevertheless noticed. “Tell me, what does it remind you of?”

            “Does it matter?” Dean asked brightly, eyebrows raised. He tried to broadcast an attitude of perfect normalcy. With a hard, stubborn kernel of “back off” at the center of it.

            “Yes.”

            Cas’ voice had dropped an octave. That gravelly seraph’s tone that Dean had so often brushed off before now caught at him, lighting a hot knot of excitement in his stomach. It bled outwards and downwards.  

            Dean wiped his hands on his jeans. “I don’t know perfume from motor oil, Cas,” he laughed.

            “Indulge me.”

            Strangely cowed by the command, Dean struggled to think of anything that resonated with the scent’s sweet, amber warmth and inky depth. “If I had to say--I’d say you smell like liquor and honey and thunder,” he finally muttered, much too fast.

            “Look who’s poetic now.”

            “Are you making fun of me? You?”

            Cas went on, ignoring Dean’s bristling attitude. “Those are all things you like, aren’t they?”

            “Well… sure.” Dean pulled away, appraising the state of the wings. They shone with health and splendor, hardly a quill out of place. He didn’t know what else he could possibly do for them. “Cas, I think we’re done here.”

            “Are we?” An engaging lilt had crept into his voice, almost as though he was teasing Dean.

            Dean closed his eyes, his fists gripping and releasing the bedspread. This wasn’t happening. It seemed like an overly vivid dream. Though Balthazar and Gabriel had apparently reveled in the carnal pleasures of life on Earth, Cas had never really shown physical interest in other people. Dean was misunderstanding, surely.

            “I thank you for what you’ve done for my wings. You were extremely attentive and generous. I feel much better,” Cas went on when Dean made no answer. “I’m sorry if this exchange has made you uncomfortable.”

            “Why would you think that?”

            “Your heart rate and circulation have increased. I can hear the blood coursing through you. You’re perspiring. You are either afraid or aroused. Or both.” Cas paused, squinting as though giving the matter closer analysis. “Both,” he declared.

            Something about Castiel’s scientific confidence in his assessment deflated all the bluster and denial Dean had prepared. He stared into his lap, face hot. “Cas, I’d like you to leave now.”

            “Of course I will, if that’s what you wish.” Cas stood, sending another cascade of loose down to the floor. He turned at the foot of the bed, wings tucked into sleek peaks behind his back. They made an imposing sight, no matter their position. Cas leaned forward, flattening his palms on the edge of the bed like a police interrogator looming over his suspect. Dean flinched back as he never would have from a policeman. “Only answer me one question: _Is that really what you wish?_ ”

            Dean’s eyes hooked on the angel’s hard blue stare, transfixed.

            “No,” he heard himself croak.

            “You need me to give you comfort as you have given it to me,” Cas stated, a remote, unearthly sympathy passing over his face. Lines crinkled the edges of his eyes.

            “You don’t have to…” Dean whispered.

            “You’re hungry. To be touched. To be wanted.”

            “Do you? Want me?” Turned on as he was, the last thing he wanted was for Cas to think he owed him something for his help. Dean had lived his whole life extending dangerous and unreasonable levels of help to others, without compensation. He might gripe and joke about it, but he had never actually cared to be paid, never cared to be on the receiving end of cold, hard debt. When he got money or recognition (or sex), he liked to win it on the basis of his own merit. Cash hustled out of douchebags in a game of Texas hold ‘em hit his pocket sweeter than any repayment from a monster’s survivor could have. And if someone felt the need to tumble into his bed, he damn sure wanted it to be because they _felt the need_ , not because they were doing him an uncertain favor.

            “Dean, I spiraled through the sulfur and blood-rains of Hell toward you. I dug my fingers into the white hot corona of your exposed soul. I have followed you everywhere since. I know I’ve… stumbled… a few times. I’ve hurt you and I’ve let you down, and I don’t expect you to forget that. But you’re what I want, what I always return to—always—ever since I first saw you. As often as I have failed you, so too have I done absurd, unspeakable things in your name, unable to bear giving you up. I can’t be near enough to you.”

            Brow furrowed, Castiel spoke so quickly and fervently in his low, burning voice that Dean could hardly follow the flow of words. Yet his face must have fully betrayed his feelings as his brain caught up because Cas’ tense scowl lifted and he lurched forward, lips pressing hard against Dean’s.

            A desperate whine escaped Dean’s mouth, a thin, animal sound that ought to have embarrassed him. But he thawed under the kiss’ pressure, blood pounding in his ears, awareness of his surroundings seeming to melt away. He furrowed his fingers into Cas’ hair at the nape of his neck, thumbs gripping his jaw, kissing back with everything he had.

            He didn’t want Cas to pull away, didn’t want him to pause or break the momentum. If that happened, Dean didn’t know what he would say. No, far better to fling himself in without hesitation. He twisted to the right, gripping Cas very nearly by the throat now. The sandpaper scrape of their combined five-o-clock shadows felt so unfamiliar and reminded him in no uncertain terms that he was face to face with a man. A jolt of nervous delight quivered through his chest, and he found himself kissing the soft indented corner of Cas’ mouth, embracing the prickling chafe against his lips. He went for the warm, vulnerable hinge of his jaw next, letting his mouth drift open against Cas’ flesh, feeling the angel’s pulse jump against his tongue.

            Cas let out a rumbling groan as Dean nuzzled aggressively against his neck. He moved his arms under Dean’s, scooping upward to grip his shoulders from behind. His bare chest pressed against Dean’s faded t-shirt, damp with sweat. Hitching one knee up onto the bed, he leaned into Dean with an insistence that he did not want to deny. Dean collapsed backward, Cas spilling over him in a wave of rustling feathers. His shirt had scrunched up above one hipbone in the shift, and he felt the slick skin of Cas’ stomach sliding against his own.

            Dean marveled at Cas’ sheer weight settled atop him. He had never thought of him as a big guy—certainly slighter than himself—yet Dean felt truly pinned down beneath the angel’s strength and gravity in a way he never had under a woman’s playful pounce. No words needed, they might maintain the mutual fiction that he couldn’t toss her off at any moment, and Dean liked that just fine… but this was a different story, and he liked it just fine too.

            Cas’ short, hectic breaths huffed against the dip of his collarbone, and his hips lodged against Dean’s own ignited a simple, writhing lust in him that didn’t fade. His dick strained within his jeans now, no subtlety about it. He nudged upward as Cas kissed him again, absorbed in the sweet torture of grinding into the rough denim. He felt the stiff outline of Cas as well—freer in his thin suit trousers—resting in the hollow between Dean’s groin and thigh.

            “You are not the same guy who sent a hooker screaming into the night with his incompetence,” Dean gasped fitfully when Cas withdrew from his lips.

            “No, I’m not,” Cas agreed, much too seriously, killing the casual laugh that Dean had tried to muster. “I’ve been human since then. I’ve expanded my horizons.”

            “With… women. You’ve expanded your horizons with women,” Dean clarified.

            “What’s the difference?” Cas said, wholly rhetorically. It was plain he saw none.

            “Well, there’s a huge—I mean, there’s all kinds of—” Dean spluttered, frustrated that he should have to explain the obvious. “This is completely different, Cas.”

            “No, it’s not,” Cas corrected him, as if speaking to a child. “Bodies don’t mean nearly as much as you think they do.”

            Dean crumpled under the force of this statement, feeling lost and wishing he could make Cas understand. But then the angel’s hands were skimming underneath his shirt, palms bumping over his ribcage. Dean seethed under his touch, unable to cobble together any logical argument.

            “Take this off,” Cas breathed, having bunched Dean’s t-shirt and long-sleeved flannel well up around his chest. Dean hummed his assent, arching his back off the bed so Cas might draw the fabric over his head. He threw the shirts aside and pressed his mouth to Dean’s breastbone. He rubbed his stubbly cheek over Dean’s chest once, twice, like a cat claiming its favorite person.

            Fascinated, Dean roughly stroked his hands up Cas’ sides, dragging his nails just a little. He felt a smile twitch at the corner of the angel’s lips where they pressed against his anti-possession tattoo, so he clawed harder, until it elicited a startled gasp.

            “Is that good?” he mumbled into Cas’ dark, messy hair.

            “Yes,” Cas hissed.

            Dean ran his palms over the smooth muscles of his back, finally digging his splayed fingers back into the base of Cas’ wings. He gripped a mass of wet feathers, distantly surprised to find them so. The oil must have been flowing freely this whole time, soaking through. Scent burst anew into the hazy air, even richer than before. But this revelation was lost in the keening sound Castiel let loose, his hips jerking sharply against Dean.

            “Oh, God, are you okay?” Dean asked, hands springing free and flicking drops of oil over the both of them. “Did that hurt?”

            “Shut up,” Cas growled, rearing back to look him in the eye. “It feels so incredible I can hardly stand it. You have no idea how much restraint I exhibited earlier—”

            “Oh really?” Dean cut in. He flexed his fingers through the drenched feathers as he spoke, squeezing, caressing.

            Cas all but screamed, a hot tear spilling from him onto Dean’s flushed cheek. He had thrust so wildly that Dean’s legs had parted, allowing the angel’s thigh to wedge tight against his crotch. Achingly hard now, Dean tugged at Cas’ pants and his own belt. But his hands, so glazed with oil, slipped and fumbled uselessly against the buckles and buttons. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

            “Let me.” Then Cas’ fingers were there, working Dean’s belt open with a snap of leather, drawing down his fly, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. “Let me,” he repeated, wrenching it all down from Dean’s waist, thighs, knees—and onto the floor. Dean’s erection slid briefly against the faint trail of hair below Cas’ navel as he discarded his own pants, making him shiver. And then, all at once, the smooth ridges of Cas’ cock were rubbing against his own, a delicious, foreign sensation, totally irresistible.

            Dean didn’t suppose he needed protection with an angel. It wasn’t as though Castiel could carry or catch any human virus. Dean wasn’t used to that either, having relied heavily on condoms to carry him through twenty years of one-night-stands. Not that they didn’t break every once in a while. But at least he tried. 

            Having rather liked the way Cas reacted, Dean moved a hand toward his shuddering wings once more.

            “Don’t,” Cas said, snatching his wrist and lowering it back to the bed with measured force.

            “I… I thought you liked it,” Dean replied through a fog of lust.

            “I do. Too much. I lose all control of myself. Maybe… maybe later. At the end,” he panted.

            “Oh—okay. That oil though. It smells—and feels—”

            Cas didn’t even let him finish before he’d contorted an arm behind himself, dragging his fingers across his own back awkwardly. He brought his hand back around and slapped a dripping palm against Dean’s chest.

            Tingling warmth spread from the glossy handprint. Cas brushed thrilling rivulets of it down Dean’s abdomen and groin. Knowing full well what was coming, Dean still found himself unprepared when Cas’ hand folded around him, coating his dick in the stimulating substance even as it stroked firmly. He moaned into Cas’ shoulder, grateful for the bank-vault-thick walls of the bunker.            

            “God, Cas…” Dean couldn’t help thrusting into his fist, forgetting everything else as the world seemed to shrink to the size of his rumpled, rocking bed.

            “It is so… provocative… having you _covered_ in my scent…” Cas divulged into Dean’s ear, biting and sucking between words. “I bet… you’d like to taste it, too… wouldn’t you?”

            “Oh, _fuck_ yes,” Dean gasped, the suggestion taking hold.

            Cas withdrew his hand, still covered with wing oil, and swiped one thumb roughly over Dean’s bottom lip. Dean immediately scraped his teeth over it, sucking off the residue as Cas stared down at him with hooded eyes.

            An absolutely unreal flavor met his tongue, a sheer, sweet impression of summer rain.

            “That’s amazing,” he said hoarsely, snagging Cas’ hand and bringing it to his face to take a finger in his mouth. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted to lick the stuff off every inch of Castiel’s waiting body. Hardly thinking about what he was doing, Dean surged upward against him, throwing an arm around Cas’ waist and tipping him sideways. The angel’s wings flapped erratically in apparent surprise, sending papers and photographs skidding off the bedside table. Cas caught himself on the headboard, contracting his wings in a hurry and half-reclining against it. Dean rolled with him, nipping and kissing Cas’ neck as he stole a swipe of oil from his dripping back. He grasped Cas’ erection, feeling it jump and throb against his palm. Dean bent over him, ducking his head down, and before he could think too hard about it, closed his lips around Cas’ cock.

            He lapped his tongue over the head with swift, even pressure as his hand pumped up and down. The addition of the slick, distinctive oil made the motions feel effortless and, very quickly, Dean found he didn’t mind it at all. Sucking intently, he pulled as much into his mouth as he could. He pawed at Cas’ thigh and hip with his free left hand, nails tickling.

            “ _Ah—ah—Dean—_ ” Castiel stuttered brokenly, all composure and confidence drained from his bare, ragged voice. Dean loved it. If he couldn’t dig his hands into those wings, this would do just fine. He wanted to hear Cas howl.

            Fingers tangled convulsively in Dean’s hair as Cas panted nonsensical exclamations. “ _Mmm—ah_ —I want—Oh, I want you so badly—” he finally gulped.

            “How?” Dean mumbled against Cas’ feverish skin, withdrawing his mouth just long enough to ask before resuming. He realized he didn’t exactly know himself what he wanted next. But he wanted to know what Cas wanted.

            “You, inside me.”

            “You sure?” Dean asked, coughing a little. He hadn’t presumed they would go so far, with so many other distractions available. He turned his eyes up the steep slope of Cas’ belly and chest to his wild, blissful face.

            “Please, Dean,” Cas insisted. “Quickly.”

            “Okay, yeah,” he agreed, a prickling sweat breaking out on his forehead. “But it takes a little working up to, you know? I mean… uh…”

            “Dean, do you need to be reminded I’m not human?” Castiel snapped, feathers stirring and fluffing up behind him. “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

            “I—I know.” Dean flushed.

            “Do you? Show me.”

            The direct challenge triggered a fierce response in Dean. He sat up, grabbing Cas and hauling him forward to straddle his lap. Cas tangled his arms around Dean’s neck, burying his face against his hair and gasping as Dean worked a hand between them, circling the taut ring of muscle briefly before introducing two oil-slick fingers.

            “You cocky bastard,” Dean snarled cheerfully as Cas squirmed in his lap, thighs gripping Dean’s sides so tightly he thought they might crack his ribs. He prodded further, eliciting a moan. “You are going to regret that. You still want it? Huh? Do you?”

            “ _Yes_ , yes, Dean,” Cas cried.

            “Sit up a little.” Dean urged Cas to rise more onto his knees so that he could position himself under him. “Okay. Real slow now…” he breathed, holding the head of his dick against Cas’ ass. “Easy…” He pushed into the smooth heat, moving his hands to grasp Cas’ hips and guide him down.

            “Oh, God,” Dean growled, clenching his jaw. He wrapped a hand around Cas’ cock and rubbed it zealously as Cas rocked against him. Dean thrust back in the same rhythm, dick withdrawing only to plunge back in to the hilt.

            Cas was almost sobbing with gratification, fingernails gouging into Dean’s shoulders. His wings beat fitfully in the air.

            “Now, Cas? Can I touch your wings now?” Dean begged.

            “Yes, whatever you want. Whatever—you want—”

            Feeling almost giddy, Dean laced the fingers of his free hand into Castiel’s feathers, massaging and clawing. Cas made a noise as if he was dying, the overdose of stimulation sending him into a tailspin of rapture. He came all over Dean’s fist and stomach in several hot, sticky spurts, his whole body shuddering. Dean eased him through it with slow, languid strokes, holding him close. When Cas came back to earth, chest heaving and eyes so blown with lust they looked almost black, he kissed Dean furiously, their tongues sliding together.

            Cas pulled back to look at Dean. Florid blotches of color and tears stained his cheeks and neck. Dean couldn’t believe how beautiful it looked to him.  

            “Will you come for me now?” Cas cupped Dean’s face in his palms only to run them down his throat and chest. He rode him faster, a shaky smile playing over his lips. He pitched his wings forward, curling them around so they brushed over Dean’s arms and back. It felt like being enveloped in their own dark, private universe.

            Dean fought for control, fucking Cas desperately. His vision started to black out around the edges. Along with a sharp tightening low in his groin.

            “Ah— _ah, Cas!_ ” he groaned, ejaculating hard. Dizzy and breathless, he clutched Cas like a drowning man clinging to a raft. The warm, sweat-streaked cocoon of wings smelled overwhelmingly of Castiel’s intoxicating scent. Dean closed his eyes, suddenly weary, and rested his chin on Cas’ shoulder.

            “Thank you, Dean,” Cas murmured, gently shifting himself off Dean’s lap.

            “What’re you thanking me for?” Dean slurred, still trying to put his brain back together.

            “I’ve wanted that for a long time. It’s silly of me…. Sex is… so unnecessary. But I wanted it anyway. I just wanted you to hold me like that. I understand that this vessel isn’t what you would choose. But it’s what I have, and—”

            “I like your vessel just fine, Cas,” Dean interrupted. He threw himself down on the bed beside Cas, folding one of the thin, cheap pillows in half. It felt great to stretch out, bask in the afterglow. Cas lay down as well, hesitantly, as if he didn’t quite know why he was doing it. With a dark flourish, he finally stuffed his wings back into whatever incorporeal pocket they usually occupied. He looked instantly smaller without them.

            “You don’t normally sleep with men. I know that.”

            “Hell with ‘normally’--I’ve never done that before,” Dean sighed, closing his eyes.  

            “Oh.”

            “But that’s just cause I’m stupid,” Dean went on. “You were right. About it not meaning as much as I thought.”

            “So you liked it?”

            “Did I _like_ it?” Dean smirked into the pillowcase. He cracked one eye open, looking through the haze of his eyelashes at Cas in the tawny glow of the single old lamp. “Man, look who’s stupid now.”

            Before Cas could take him too literally, Dean swung an arm over him, crushing him to his chest and kissing his damp hair. He petted the nape of his neck, tracing senseless, calming patterns over Cas’ skin. “I think cold nights in the bunker just got a lot more comfortable.”

 


End file.
